It's What's Inside That Counts
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: One birthday present--hold the bow.


Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

Thanks, Owl and Cheri, for the beta services.

**Author's Note: **In the episode "Outlaw Champion", Mark takes Milt to visit a competitor from his dirt track days. E.J. Corlette went on to big success—he even has a chain of auto parts stores named after him. But he's in trouble. He's been trying to find his competitive edge up on Mulholland Drive, going head to head with amateurs in impromptu and illegal races. One of his competitors has been critically injured and may die. E.J. wants to quit—both racing and being spokesman for his company. He doesn't realize that his financial backers are mobsters. When he tells them he's going to turn himself in for the street-racing incident, his partners get testy and try to kill him. Milt and Mark save the day. After the dust settles, E.J. tells them that Mark's engine was sabotaged in a critical race years earlier. McCormick ought to have won the championship that launched Corlette's meteoric career.

This follows on after the events of another piece I wrote: "Epilogophilia—Outlaw Champion".

**It's What's Inside That Counts**

by L. M. Lewis

A week had passed since E.J. Corlette had visited Gull's Way to present McCormick with a long overdue trophy. Hardcastle hadn't quite digested the idea that Mark, even though he rightfully deserved it, had returned it to the man whose name was engraved on it.

Maybe giving it back wasn't such a mystery. It was just a hunk of plated metal. The real prize—the public recognition and the big money that had followed it—would never be Mark's. Even after his recent career setback, Corlette still had plenty of fame and fortune. Why would McCormick want to hang onto a reminder of what might have been?

But if that was the case, then where were the sharp remarks? Surely there ought to be a load for Corlette—clawing his way to the top over McCormick's sabotaged car. And the judge figured there ought to be at least a few left over for him, the guy McCormick usually held responsible in general for his misfortunes.

Hardcastle couldn't quite believe Mark when he'd explained that E.J.'s success hadn't been worth the grief it had cost the man. Where the hell had all that philosophy come from?

That's what he asked Frank, over a couple of beers at a Friday afternoon get-together that he specifically hadn't dragged McCormick along to.

"So you're unhappy because Mark isn't?" the lieutenant asked, one eyebrow cocked up. "You'd be happier if he wasn't?"

"Nah." Milt shook his head. He took a quaff, and finally added, "I don't want him to be mad about it. I just think maybe he is and doesn't realize it."

"So what'd be wrong with that?" Frank frowned and added, "There's lots of stuff—the stuff we can't do anything about—that it'd probably be better to let go."

"Not if it means you give up."

"'Give up'? What makes you think he's done that?"

Hardcastle shrugged and glanced off to the side for a moment. It might have been a bit of evasion, but the guy across from him didn't take up the slack in the conversation so eventually he said, grudgingly, "I dunno; he just seems kind of preoccupied lately. Withdrawn, maybe, like he's somewhere else. I think maybe he's off thinking about how things'd be if he'd won that trophy the first time around."

"So he's daydreaming a little—"

"It's dangerous," Hardcastle interjected sharply. "I need him to be focused."

"What, so he doesn't cut himself with the hedge-trimmers? Take a break for a couple weeks. You said you're going to Hawaii this year for the judges' convention—that's coming up, isn't it?"

"Next month."

"Well how sharp does Mark have to be to bring the mail in every day and turn some lights on at night?" Frank grinned. "You want me to stop by while you're gone, make sure he's not throwing any wild parties?"

"Hmmph, if he was in the partying mood, I wouldn't be talking to you about this. I'm telling ya, something's wrong with the guy."

"Okay," Frank conceded, "you'd be a better judge of that than me. So like I said, take a week off. He'll get over it."

Hardcastle nodded slowly, then shot Harper a look. "But what if he doesn't?"

Frank's expression went more thoughtful. He finally said, "You're actually admitting what you do is dangerous?"

"Yeah . . . sometimes," Hardcastle replied a little defensively. "But it's important. It needs to be done."

"Even if your back-up's not with the program?"

The judge frowned and took another slug of beer. Then he cocked his head. "A week," he conceded. "That might just be the ticket. His birthday's coming up."

Frank took a drink from his own mug and then shook his head. "Didn't know."

"The big 3-0. Seems young to me but you know—"

"Not so young when you've spent a couple of them behind bars."

Hardcastle ignored that. "Maybe he really has let go of this racing notion. Maybe he just needs to get past that birthday and—"

He'd made a little gesture that was supposed to mean 'smooth sailing' but might have been interpreted as falling off a cliff. Harper looked alarmed.

"You know what I mean." Hardcastle shrugged. "I'll flip some burgers. We'll watch a game—"

"He'll realize there's more to life than winning the big prize money and having your picture on the cover of _Sports Illustrated_ with a bottle of champagne getting poured down your neck and a girl in hot pants hanging off you," Frank added dryly.

"Something like that," the judge said. "Maybe."

"Good luck on that one." Frank lifted his mug in salute and finished of the last of his beer. Then he glanced down at his wrist and said, "Almost six. You sure I can't talk you into some pot roast? Claudia was all excited when I told her you two had given E.J. Corlette a hand."

"Yeah," Hardcastle made a face; it wasn't the thought of pot roast, "the famous race car driver. What's a little near-thing vehicular homicide?"

"Cut her some slack, Milt. That part of the case didn't get much press. The guy and his family aren't saying anything."

"Corlette must've written some pretty big checks to cover it." Hardcastle sighed, staring at his own now-empty glass. "But he turned himself in--that's all I asked. Can't help it if he got off light with the charges." He looked up. "Nothing against Claudia or her pot roast, but I've got some errands to run."

He did, too, or at least one specifically. It had only just occurred to him while he'd been sitting there with Frank. By the time he was out on the street, halfway to where the truck was parked, he'd gone back and forth on the notion at least four times.

A birthday gift—nothing too fancy. Something _useful_. He wasn't sure exactly why he thought it was a good idea. Heck, maybe it wasn't—they'd made it through Mark's last birthday with no fuss.

But that had been almost a year ago, and right about when McCormick had let Teddy Hollins move into the gatehouse, only a week or so after he'd taken up residence there himself. Hardcastle felt his brow furrowing and consciously tried to resist it. They'd had a good run this past year and all that crazy stuff back at the beginning was ancient history. He had every intention of getting on that plane to the judges' convention in a couple of weeks and not doing more than a daily phone check with McCormick . . . maybe two.

A present. Something useful. The furrow was back. New hedge clippers, maybe?

No, nothing related to chores—too much of a reminder of the difference between what was and what might have been. Maybe a pump for the basketball—McCormick was always complaining that the one they had let out more air than it put in.

He thought about that for a moment but rejected it for reasons that he couldn't quite spell out.

He glanced sideward at the shop he was passing—jewelry and watches. He stopped in mid-step and then backed up a few feet, gazing through the display window. He only hesitated for a second before he reached for the door and stepped inside. The clerk was on him a moment later.

"A watch for a guy," the judge said, "nothing too fancy."

"A gift?"

"Sort of," Hardcastle grudged.

Trays were produced. The process turned out to be more complicated than he'd realized. Of course it wasn't worth getting something that wasn't water-proof. The judge cast a grim thought back to a reservoir near Clarence. Shock-proofing would be essential, too, given the situations McCormick occasionally got into.

He picked up a solid-looking one and studied it more closely.

"That's a very nice model," the clerk assured him, "rugged and reliable, and it has a lot of extra functions."

Hardcastle liked the sound of that: rugged and reliable—maybe even a subtle reminder that durability counted for more than speed. He barely paid attention while the man demonstrated the capabilities—a built-in stop watch and everything. Useful for trips to the track. He found himself frowning again. Okay, maybe pulse checks.

"That one'll be fine," he said, pulling out his wallet.

"Shall I wrap it?" the clerk asked as he accepted the credit card.

"Nah, I'll do it myself." He didn't want some frou-frou gold paper and a bow on this. He'd never hear the end of it from McCormick. A simple wrapping job would do—plain paper and scotch tape--after all what was really important was what was inside.

He smiled to himself as the clerk completed the transaction and slipped the watch into its box.


End file.
